Nizpatches Volume Two: Twisted Crime: Nizpatches, #2

By Niz Thomas

The Next Volume in the Much Anticipated Series!

Tune into the frequency of these "dispatches" from the mind of eleven-time Writers of the Future Contest honoree, Niz Thomas.

For the first time, collect Niz Thomas' short fiction all in one place. With a multi-volume series entitled Nizpatches, you get stories all centered around a theme or genre. Volume Two collects a perfect alchemy of riveting suspense, throat-clutching tension, and the feeling that the characters you meet have a few too many screws loose.

With Volume Two, you get twisted crime.

Crime in many forms. Twisted in new and interesting ways.

Beginning with the part-of-a-series story, "Call Me Gertrude," follows the dame of danger, a woman with a lot more than just the attitude she wears like a stiletto dagger, who flees a bad situation into the remote wilderness of South Carolina and finds a lot more darkness ahead than behind, and ending with "Red Tempest," featuring a disgraced FBI criminal profiler thrown off the case hunting for a serial killer who murdered his closest friends, forced to confront a dark night of the soul with his brilliant lawyer wife.

Each volume promises smart suspense for a stupid good time! Add to your collection today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Throughplace Publishing
• Release date: Feb 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224013975

Book preview

Cover for Nizpatches Volume Two: Twisted Crime, picturing a man standing in a doorway with a blood red effect shining out from behind him.

NIZPATCHES

VOLUME TWO: TWISTED CRIME

NIZPATCHES

NIZ THOMAS

Throughplace Publishing

COPYRIGHT

Nizpatches

Volume Two: Twisted

Made in the USA

Published by Throughplace Publishing

throughplace.com

Text copyright © 2024 by Michael Nisivoccia

All rights reserved.

Cover and Layout copyright © 2024 by Throughplace Publishing

Cover design by Michael Nisivoccia / Throughplace Publishing

Cover art copyright © grandfailure / Depositphotos

Introduction

Text copyright © 2024 by Michael Nisivoccia

Call Me Gertrude

Published by Throughplace Publishing, 2023

Text copyright © 2023 by Michael Nisivoccia

All rights reserved.

Cover art copyright © breakermaximus / thriller illustration / Depositphotos

Cover art copyright © sozon / aged paper / Depositphotos

No Control

Text copyright © 2023 by Michael Nisivoccia

All rights reserved.

Cover and Layout copyright © 2023 by Throughplace Publishing

Cover design by Michael Nisivoccia / Throughplace Publishing

Cover art copyright © mtoome / Depositphotos

The Voice of Rage and Ruin

Published by Throughplace Publishing, 2023

Text copyright © 2023 by Michael Nisivoccia

All rights reserved.

Cover and Layout copyright © 2023 by Throughplace Publishing

Cover design by Michael Nisivoccia / Throughplace Publishing

Cover art copyright © ivanvbtv / Depositphotos

Ray Ray’s Stoop

Published by Throughplace Publishing, 2023

Text copyright © 2023 by Michael Nisivoccia

All rights reserved.

Cover and Layout copyright © 2023 by Throughplace Publishing

Cover design by Michael Nisivoccia / Throughplace Publishing

Cover art copyright © wirestock_creators / Depositphotos

Red Tempest

Published by Throughplace Publishing, 2023

Text copyright © 2023 by Michael Nisivoccia

All rights reserved.

Cover art copyright © lenkaserbina / red wine stains / Depositphotos

Cover art copyright © roxanabalint / foot finger and handprints / Depositphotos

Cover art copyright © sozon / aged paper sheet / Depositphotos

Afterword

Text copyright © 2024 by Michael Nisivoccia

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

COPYRIGHT

Family Tree

Made in the USA

Published by Throughplace Publishing

throughplace.com

Text excerpt copyright © 2023 by Michael Nisivoccia

All rights reserved.

Cover and Layout copyright © 2023 by Throughplace Publishing

Cover design by Michael Nisivoccia / Throughplace Publishing

Cover art copyright © Robert Adrian Hillman / Shutterstock

This text excerpt is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

CONTENTS

Also By Niz Thomas

Introduction

Call Me Gertrude

Intro

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

No Control

Intro

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

The Voice of Rage and Ruin

Intro

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Ray Ray’s Stoop

Intro

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Red Tempest

Intro

Part One

Part Two

Afterword

Exclusive Sneak Peek

Family Tree

Chapter 1

Join the Mailing List

Also By Niz Thomas

About the Author

INTRODUCTION

They say a second act is the toughest one to pull off. The sophomore slump. Second season syndrome. One-hit wonder. All phrases that someone in my position, releasing their second collection of short fiction, would prefer never to hear.

Because while the causes of the sophomore slump can be psychological, there is a universal law which also could apply–one so terrifying to think about that I hesitate to even write the words down on these pages.

Regression to the mean.

Shudder.

There’s the big, gaping chasm of despair upon which anyone trying to do a hard thing again faces: the idea that maybe, just maybe, they aren’t that good.

Double shudder.

For this second volume of Nizpatches, which are semi-regular themed collections of fiction written entirely by my hand (dispatches, if you will, from my mind, get it?), you can say a great many things (as I mentioned in the first volume, these stories are now yours, too).

But you can’t say I played it safe.

In this collection, you’ve got some extra darkness. A sprinkle in some stories. A heaping spoonful in others. And maybe in one or two, a whole truckload (darkness is in the eye of the beholder, I suppose). These stories are not just crime stories, which on their own often highlight the extremes of the human condition in ways other kinds of fiction cannot replicate. This collection has a little something beyond just breaking the law. It’s not quite horror, but there is certainly a theme of dread laced in.

They say that horror and crime writers are some of the friendliest people going, attributed to the ability of both groups to work out some of the darkness which lives inside all of us. Rather than act on those feelings, we get to write about them instead. Typically called an outlet. This is often thought of as a far healthier alternative to nefarious action–and it’s far more net positive for society, too.

By that metric, I’m a regular Fred Rodgers after having completed these stories.

The following pages have stories about vigilantes, gangsters, killers, and crooks.

And that’s just the good guys.

In truth, what you hold in your hands proves the maxim that everyone is the hero of their own story. There is very little black and white in these pages. But for all the grey, I think there are some really powerful stories here.

I tend to prefer some darkness in my reading, and if you like the same, I think you’ll find plenty to enjoy here.

And if not, there’s always Volume Three to look forward to.

It can’t get much darker than this, right?

Niz Thomas

February, 2024

CALL ME GERTRUDE

INTRO

Ah, the True Name series. A favorite of mine, and one I’ve returned to several times since writing the first entry, Call Me Betsy, which appeared in Volume One of Nizpatches (and can also be found standalone at e-tailers everywhere).

The idea behind this series is that a lone woman–a drifter, grifter, and all-around miscreant–has a sort of mystery of the week, adventure in each story, in a different place across America. In each story, she takes on a new persona, a new name. She is sort of no one and anyone at the same time.

The name, as you may have guessed from the name of the series, is the key. Because with each name she adopts, she channels what’s called a true name. The concept of the true name is ancient, describing the belief that a thing’s name can hold the key to the very essence or nature of an object, person, or place.

Heavy stuff. Subscribed to by many societies throughout human history, many of which never interacted with one another, which makes the concept something of a universal truth shared among humanity.

So when our main character takes on a new name amidst whatever chaotic situation she’s created for herself, there’s always a little mystery embedded there. You get to see not only what sort of crazy, erratic action she takes, but you also get to see why she chose a particular name in the first place.

Because one thing about our main character in these stories is that she’s got sort of a knack for knowing what she needs before she needs it.

In this story, she chose the name Gertrude. I won’t spoil why.

But I will warn you. Darkness lurks ahead.

And perhaps the name Gertrude has some of that darkness embedded within it.

Perhaps that was the only way for our protagonist–whatever her true name is–to fight the darkness she encounters in the backwoods of the South.

Enjoy.

If you dare.

The cover to the short story Call Me Gertrude.

ONE

The dual scents of peaty swamp bog and sprayed skunk told her she was finally, totally, and at last lost out here in the wilderness area of the Francis Marion National Park.

Hallelujah.

As if to drive the point home, she stood before a tangled undergrowth of hair-clump ferns, cypress knees, and waist-high pine bushes thick enough to be a hedgerow befitting Buckingham Palace. About as impenetrable as the little soldier boys dressed up in their red coats, too. Impossible to see beyond it. Could be anything on the other side. A traveling carnival, maybe. Or even more lush, abundant vegetation. Hell, even the Queen herself sunbathing her pasty crumpets.

All Gertrude—as she was calling herself now—knew was that the natural barrier before her blocked any clear trail forward.

The first indication, in fact, that she hadn’t actually seen a trail in quite some time.

It took her a while to realize it, she supposed. How long ago had the familiar indications of civilization recessed? Had to have been hours on foot since the tar-paved roads and car exhaust at the park’s entrance gave way to thicker and thicker vegetation—what a man she once dated for a week out in Wyoming might have called country, using the word with so many definitions in the only true way that called to mind some menace.

That was how she thought of it now, with the country closing in around her and choking out any semblance of fresh, breezy air.

Charred burgers and boiled hot dogs no longer hung on the heavy air, either. They’d been her steady companion on the hour drive up from Charleston—first along the highway as she passed Cookout and McDonald’s and all the rest of the bulging, rotund Meccas of the South. There were no shortage of fast-food joints dotting the major arterial roads leading away from the city, all waiting expectantly like vultures lining up to watch the roadkill finally expire. No question about if. Just of when.

Off the highway, past the fast-food joints, it was the campgrounds inside the park itself that exuded the same smells. Charcoal-finished beef, mixed with easy conversation, and cold beer, all of which had long-ago fallen away behind her with each step deeper into the wilderness.

All of it now gone.

Gertrude turned back around. No way she could continue forward without a team of strapping, machete-wielding ruffians. Perhaps a pack of donkeys or pack horses, too—just to keep her ankles free of annoying critters and snake bites. And if she were going to start making wishes, Genie, she wouldn’t mind a litter carried by a few more of those strapping ruffians. And a fan to keep her cool, too.

But wasn’t that sort of daydream that got her out here, lost in the first place? She’d been so much in her own head that she’d walked right on through a surprisingly sparse clearing of longleaf pines that stretched up overhead like multiple-story tenement buildings. Unlike the hedgerow, she could actually see daylight. But along with the change in perspective came an intense rush of loneliness that told her three things:

One—there had been a lot of steps between the food and people at the campgrounds and here. She’d been deep inside her mind for what seemed like hours (and her legs confirmed that as fact). Given the shift of the sun, now on its descent down toward its summer nap, she’d put her best guess at four hours.

Two—she was once again free. Facing toward the unknown winds of The Road—her only true companion in this life. Sometimes The Road took shape as a freight train, or a beater car with one hand air-gliding out along the breeze. One bare-and-black-bottomed foot up on the dash. Windows down (using the manual knob, of course), wind blowing through her unwashed curly brown hair like Tom Petty lyrics come to life.

In this case, The Road was the dense South Carolina wilderness. Far enough away from Charleston to lose any heat that might have been following her. Far enough to lose just about anything, other than a rogue hunter or forest ranger. Not a thing in her pockets. Not a packed bag to accompany her. Only the Holy City (her personal favorite of Charleston’s nicknames) and the vapor of myth and memories she’d spun up at her back, a fleeting cloud left behind as she journeyed forth to a new start.

And the third thing?

That she was truly and utterly alone out here.

Dark-side-of-the-moon alone. Deep-voids-of-outer-outer-space alone.

Well, there she went with Daddy’s hyperbole again. Maybe not totally alone.

The longleaf pines stood awkwardly with her like dweebs at the school dance, hoping someone—anyone—will come talk to them. Not even a breeze to sway their thin trunks, still as bald and unblemished as young skin. Not so much as a sneeze of the wind to ruffle their bushy, leafy tops.

Just a thick, unrelenting Southern soup of humidity and scorching heat. A little dash of ozone-free sun mixed in, too.

On second thought, maybe she was actually baking-on-the-sun alone.

’Course the lack of breeze was evident to her in other ways, things she might have noticed if she hadn’t been so lost inside her own mind. Namely that her once-white silk going-out blouse was now stuck to her, suctioned at her low back like an industrial plunger. Silk and moisture and rough hiking didn’t mix all that well. Go figure.

Swamps in the South tended to have that sort of effect. Wring the water right out of you like laundry fresh out of the washing bucket. Maybe that was why so many of the women she’d encountered back in the dance clubs of Charleston looked like all the moisture in their bodies had been sucked out with one of those vacuum sealers used for keeping your food freezer-burn free in the freezer, or for keeping your camping gear nice and compact until you needed it next.

Well, that and all the forty-dollar-a-pop workout classes. And the plastic surgery. A new phenomenon in the South, from Gertrude’s experience—and she’d been around to see plenty. Perhaps beauty-for-all had finally become cheap enough that even the middle-class housewives had got them some.

But none of that followed her here, to the isolated wilderness. An area that was remarkable for not only its isolation but also its resilience. A placard near the entrance said that a hurricane came shredding through here about five years ago, ripping out most of the old growth. So most everything left was new. Which maybe explained the fact that this clearing—the one she’d just walked through before reaching the hedgerow—wasn’t too thick to turn her back. And why these pines were tall and skinny, not yet having reached puberty where they filled out and put some meat on their wallflower bones.

She bit her lip at the thought. Have mercy. A couple more years’ growth would make it so she wouldn’t even be able to walk through this spot. And the hedgerow. Forget it. No chance for her to mindlessly wander in like she had. Probably no chance to even get within a mile of it.

All the untamed wild around her carried a certain weight to it. She couldn’t help but feel the ground’s ancient roots underneath, stretching down into the center of the earth, leaching up the nutrients from this soil. Something Gertrude herself felt a certain amount of kinship to.

Maybe because it was sort of how she’d lived her life up ’til now.

She walked further into the longleaf pines, letting her hands dance along the tops of a row of tall grass as she did so. The willowy tops tickled her palms.

What was she doing out here, anyway? And why hadn’t she bothered to change her top?

Most importantly, why was she drawn to this place? Never been here before, never even heard about it. Until she read the placard near the trailhead she’d started this journey on, she’d never even heard of Francis Marion at all. Though now that she read a little about him, she had to admit feeling a kinship to him as well. A lone soldier in the Revolutionary War. One who scrapped and clawed his way into the nightmares of those dirty Brits (probably the Queen’s great-great-great-cousins) using irregular tactics and guerilla fighting to make an outsized impact on their tea-loving fannies.

So far as she could tell, Francis could only claim ownership of the park because he often disappeared into these swamplands, eventually earning himself the nickname The Swamp Fox.

Gertrude shuddered with delight thinking of a scruffy Southern man with enough dog in the fight to become a fox himself.

Alas, she was a few hundred years too late to make that love connection now.

One could make an argument that finding any sort of love connection was a task best put on ice for a while, given the situation she left behind back in the Holy City. She’d only spent six